


Drowning In You (The Ocean Could Never Hold Me Like You Do)

by galacticlyss (CosmicallyLyss)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ADHD, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apollo and Hyacinthus References, Apollo and Icarus References, Awkward Flirting, Closeted Character, Crushes, Death is a Motif but Nobody Actually Dies, Depression, Dream as Apollo References, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Drunk Texting, Drunken Flirting, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Motif of Drowning, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Dream, Oblivious George, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pining, Rating May Change, Secret Crush, Slow Build, Slow Burn, So much angst, Texting, Thinking About Death, water and fire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicallyLyss/pseuds/galacticlyss
Summary: "It occurs to George that fuck, he’s crying over Dream for the fourth goddamn time this week, and his muscles tense from anxiety. George’s damp lips are parted, and he can feel his shortened breaths pass between them. His throat is closing up, his shoulders shake-He clamps his mouth shut with a shudder, and sinks under the water.It’s calm below the surface.- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Dream injects lethal sincerity into each one of his words. He shoots his flirtations out towards George like they’re fire-tipped bolts for a crossbow, and he watches with an intense stare as they land directly where Dream had aimed - in George’s throat, moving in tandem with his Adam’s apple when he swallows nervously on camera. Those bolts that burn and blister George’s skin are for the heavier dalliances."In other words, George is drowning in the heartache that comes from being in love with his best friend, and Dream is set alight by his desire to ignite his best friend.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 74





	1. It Comes In Waves

**Author's Note:**

> for @ar_tiny, aka my best friend whom i would not have titled this fic without!  
> (chapter specific notes are in the chapter notes section ^^)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It feels as if he’s drowning. A sort of pressure on his lungs and his heart, blurry vision, an overall sense of panic, followed by a frantic scramble to save himself before it’s too late, and finally, acceptance. George is drowning. He’s always liked the color blue (it’s one of the only colors he can see without corrective glasses) but at some point, the sapphire waves that surround him, overpower him, and push him underwater become quite a bit excessive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ! This is my first ever fic for the MCYT fandom and first ever DNF work and I really hope y'all can accept me into the crew of DNF fanfic authors with open arms! I'll be trying my hardest to create content that you enjoy, and all I ask is no matter if this gets 2 hits or 20000000 hits (an exaggeration), it is not brought up to any content creators.  
> This dedication is to my best friend because without her, this fic would not have a title. I'm very not good with titles.... God I really am so nervous and I'm just hoping and praying people will read this and like it!!  
> So, without further ado, I present Drowning In You, a DNF fic!!!  
> please note that even though I mention some things that have actually taken place (george's among us stream), this is not some sort of linear fic intended to keep up with their actual lives. I'm merely using the existence of those videos to help the plot start itself up !  
> Happy reading, and happy new year!!!!

It feels as if he’s drowning. A sort of pressure on his lungs and his heart, blurry vision, an overall sense of panic, followed by a frantic scramble to save himself before it’s too late, and finally, acceptance. George is drowning. He’s always liked the color blue (it’s one of the only colors he can see without corrective glasses) but at some point, the sapphire waves that surround him, overpower him, and push him underwater become quite a bit excessive. At what point does the pressure get to be too much? Or maybe his air runs out and he succumbs to the water first. Maybe he sinks too far below the surface so that he can’t see the sun anymore, and can't determine which way is up towards safety. No matter what path is chosen for him in that scenario, it doesn’t exactly matter. He’s screwed. George is drowning, because George is in love with his best friend.

It doesn’t seem terrible, at least not at first glance. It’s one pretty normal thing to have a crush on your best friend, something that’s got a 97% chance of happening during a person’s life (George made this statistic up in order to try and patch up the cracks of his crumbling sanity). It’s another thing entirely to have a crush on your best friend who lives across the entire Atlantic ocean, whose face you have never seen, save for one baby photo. The ‘another thing’ becomes a far more intimidating  _ thing _ with the addition of having so many of your interactions with your best-friend-slash-crush be scrutinized by millions of fans on a daily basis. Like how he misspoke just this night, made a simple Freudian slip (echoes of  _ I trust my Dream! _ bounce around his head painfully, like pinballs made of fire instead of just metal) and started trending on Twitter within minutes. It was terrifying. Most of the flirting they’d done had just been playful, all a joke, but when he slips up -  _ I trust my Dream… _ \- he feels as if everything he’s ever done to conceal his feelings just disappears, and trying to hold on to his sense of control is about as easy as keeping sand from slipping through his fingers.

As he had started to gain exponential popularity over the recent months, he knew that the shipping and the overanalysis would be inevitable. That’s just what happens when you become popular; it’s the price you pay for fame. To be honest, he’d always wondered what would happen if he got that popular, like, how would people characterize him in fanfictions they wrote? How accurate would George himself consider it to be? Anyway, he knows that if he stated he had an issue with being shipped with his friends (and crush…), the fans would respect his boundaries. Really, he didn’t mind the shipping - he still doesn’t; it’s all fine with him! - but he never expected that he’d actually develop feelings for his best friend (and main ship counterpart). The disconcerting feelings have been all he can think about since he shut down his computer for the night after Karl’s stream that had followed his own. George considers the computers lucky; after one small press of a button, they’re clocked out. He’s jealous, and he needs a way to shut down his mind as well. Sleep likely won’t come to him for hours, so he decides on a shower to be the thing to clear his mind.

He makes sure the shower water is scalding hot before he steps in. That’s the best kind of shower to take, in his mind, where his pale skin can turn rosy red all over from the heat of the water, and his fingers start tingling before turning numb. Hot showers do great to numb more than just his extremities, though; they’re incredible at numbing his mind. He can let the steam wrap around him like a shawl, and let his thoughts run blank as he stands under the steady stream of scorching water. He gets light-headed from it pretty often, inhaling more water vapor than he does actual oxygen, but he’s never once passed out from it, so he’ll ignore the slight issue for now. He hisses upon contact with the water at first, it’s just  _ that _ hot and he’s never used to it in the first second. He takes as much time as he needs to get clean, a small smile making its way to his face as he begins to scrub at his scalp with shampoo. A sigh of relief leaves his body as he continues on with his shower routine and washes a long day of grime and sweat from his skin. His mind is soothed by the heat and the water…

But it’s still not enough.

George squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head drop so his forehead rests against the cold tile wall. He shivers at the intense contrast between the water and the wall. His skin absorbs the chill from the wall with open arms, and it feels as if there’s ice starting to slither through his bloodstream. His mind goes on a wild tangent, he spirals, one thought leads to another, and he’s wondering what temperature Dream’s hands would feel like laced with his own. And he’s wondering why exactly he’s wondering that, because he took this damn shower to  _ stop _ thinking of Dream. If a shower couldn’t completely clear his mind of thoughts about Dream, then what the hell could? George looks up at the ceiling in the hopes that maybe  _ that _ could give him an idea as to what to do to give his head some solace, long eyelashes heavy with water, but the textured tile above him doesn’t give him any answers.  _ How cruel. _ He opts to sit down on the bottom of the porcelain tub, thankful that the water has warmed it up a bit so that he doesn’t (literally) freeze his butt off. Maybe the elevation change actually did something, because George has an idea, and he thinks it just might work… His hand reaches for the faucet, and he toggles with it until the water stops from splashing down overhead and instead rushes out of the faucet itself to slowly fill the tub. He can’t tell how much time passes as the balmy water level rises around him, and doesn’t exactly care about the duration of the interim. He’s just happy that he can almost fully submerge himself in the water, propping himself up on his elbows with just his head and knees sticking out.

But it’s still not enough.

It nearly makes him cry out of frustration. He just wants a few minutes of respite where he won’t have to think. He doesn’t want to think about how his heart races whenever he talks with Dream. He doesn’t want to think about how time becomes meaningless when they stay on a call for hours into the night. Or how he’ll sit there for hours, rereading their messages and rewatching their videos, trying to glean something from the pixels and the sound waves that tells him his feelings might be reciprocated. Or how he’ll let their flirtatious banter cause a blush to form across his cheeks only when the imposing presence of the face-cam won’t expose him. Or how Dream finds his way into nearly every thought George has, like when he makes tea and the kettle says it’s ready, George’s thoughts cloud over with the sound of Dream’s wheezy laughter. He sits up for a moment and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until tan patterns swirl around behind his eyelids. Maybe...maybe he shouldn’t have done that. The pressure from his hands makes the tears that had been collecting in his eyes spill over the edge and trail down his cheeks. It occurs to him that  _ fuck _ , he’s crying over Dream for the fourth goddamn time this week, and his muscles tense from anxiety. George’s damp lips are parted, and he can feel his shortened breaths pass between them. His throat is closing up, his shoulders shake-

He clamps his mouth shut with a shudder, and sinks under the water.

It’s calm below the surface.

George exhales from his nose, feels the bubbles tickling his skin, and sinks deeper. He puffs his cheeks out and traps unused air behind his pursed lips, and sinks deeper. His short hair finds a bit of freedom in the water, being batted around by the slight waves he makes in the bathtub. His eyes are shut, since he’s never been able to open them underwater without some bad feeling ranging from discomfort to pain. His fingers and toes, already pruned from the water exposure, curl before relaxing. It’s dark, it’s silent, it’s blank. He isn’t thinking about what he wants to avoid. All that’s on his mind is the water, the darkness, the way he’s got to be aware of how  _ mortal _ he is - or else it’ll all be over for him. He doesn’t mean for his thoughts to turn so dark so quickly, but what can a guy do when he’s contemplating mortality in a bathtub? George thinks of how rapidly news of his demise would get trending and what the person who wrote the descriptions for Twitter trends would say. The morbidity of the situation makes him come close to barking out a laugh; his mouth cracks open into a smile, and he remembers the precarious situation he’s in. Water floods his mouth, the tepid liquid flows into the back of his throat and he can  _ feel _ it, but for some reason, it doesn’t startle him. He’s so close to the edge of the cliff that is life itself, sure he can see the Grim Reaper waving up at him, but he’s entirely in control. He likes feeling in control, likes the sense of power his own mortality gives him. He’s nothing but human, and that’s what makes him feel superhuman.

Superhuman or not, though, he can’t breathe underwater. Just because he was enamored with stories of Greek gods in his youth doesn’t mean he’ll get their powers; breathing underwater like Poseidon is impossible. He sits up, a chill already settling across his wet skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He angles his head down and lets the water drip out of his mouth.  _ I can breathe… _ The realization is almost strange to him, and his lungs feel weird, like he’s not used to the sensation of fresh oxygen inside of them. He hasn’t felt this out of it in ages, a mix of sleep deprivation and general unease messing with his ability to function, and he’s half convinced that he  _ did _ end up drowning in the tub, and now he’s in some sort of weird purgatory, haunting the earth until he completes his unfinished business. He shakes his head at his own thoughts. Unfinished business? Who does he think he is, Ghostbur? As soon as he thinks of Wilbur’s character’s name, it’s over for George. Word association kicks in before he can stop it; Ghostbur goes to the Dream SMP, and the Dream SMP shortens itself to Dream.

_ Dream. _

George’s heartbeat quickens instantly, despite how much he wants to deny it, and the intense thundering of his heart is what convinces him with certainty that he’s alive. He removes one of his hands from the water and brings it to his neck, his index and middle finger pressing into his jugular. He’s most definitely got a pulse. A racing one, at that. He breathes out, though it’s shaky. He’s really in a lose-lose situation, isn’t he? The only place he can be to not think about Dream is a place that could literally kill him and just left him feeling as if he might actually be dead. He opens his eyes for the first time since he descended under the water, and blinks a few times in quick succession until the water droplets have stopped obscuring his vision. He’s in deep. A thousand feet deep. Some number of leagues under the sea, according to a book he was forced to read that he didn’t care about. He’s far below the white, foam-crested waves. Far below the murky waters that eat up light and digest it, leaving everything a pitch-black mystery. He’s laying with his back on the basalt ocean floor, being held down by fear and pressure. Fear and pressure…

Fear and pressure - that’s not what traps him at the bottom of the Atlantic, that’s what traps him in real life. A shaky gasp wracks its way through George’s body. He realizes how the comfort of his warm bath has vanished. He’s just sitting there in a tepid pool of slightly translucent water.  _ What is he doing? _ It doesn’t take a genius to tell him that the answer is ‘nothing productive’. He needs to get out of the bath. He needs to get out. Out of his head, out of his own way. He’s acting as a destructive force to himself, and he’s damn aware of it, so why can’t he seem to change it? His penchant for making rational decisions becomes a bit clouded over by anger, something so unlike him. George uses an unnecessary amount of force to switch the direction on one of the tub’s knobs so the water starts to drain. He stands with a huff and ignores the heat that rushes through his ears and spots that dance in his vision. He’s pissed off, he can’t be bothered to care about his body’s message that he’s dehydrated. Ironic, isn’t it? He comes close enough to water that he almost swallows a mouthful of bathwater by accident, yet he’s dehydrated and doesn’t try to fix it. There’s a fluffy gray towel that rests on the closed toilet seat which he grabs with a white-knuckled grip. It mollifies him a bit, thankfully. George could stand to lose the edge his frustration has given him. The synapses in his brain, even amidst their Dream Crisis, can still manage to send a message to his hands to not treat his sensitive skin too roughly, so he’s gentle with the towel as he moves it over his body and dries himself off.

There are some clean, dry clothes that he remembered to take into the bathroom, which serves to knock his irritation down another peg. Present George is thanking Past George, sending his past self a smile he knows that version of himself will never see.  _ Actions with intentions that don’t matter, huh? Seems fitting. _ As he slips into the oversized black sweater and plaid pajama pants, he’s almost content enough to unclench his jaw and let the tension dissipate from his shoulders. Almost… George appreciates how he keeps his hair short for a number of reasons, but one of his personal favorites is for how quickly it manages to dry. Already, it’s just slightly damp, and he can move on to the rest of his nightly routine: brushing his teeth, washing his face, and going to the bathroom.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he flops on top of his bed, cheek pressing into his pillow. The alarm clock on his bed hasn’t been touched in years, and his phone is dead on the floor near his desk. Through the slight gaps in his curtains, he can see that the sky isn’t jet black anymore, closer to what he’d classify as navy blue. He’s thought about sunrises before, wondered about them in his childhood when he spent hours researching Apollo and imagining him riding across the sky in his sun chariot, but he’d never truly seen one for what it was worth. Even so, he knew what the colors of sunrise were supposed to be. The sky changes from black to navy blue, edged with a purple tint. That purple changes to magenta as pink clouds start to fill the sky, followed by the entire sky itself turning baby pink, then lavender, then baby blue. That’s the part George thinks would be his favorite, looking something like cotton candy. Finally, it ends with the golden rays of sun peeking above the horizon and introducing itself to the new day…or, so he’s heard. He turns his cheek away from the window so that he’s facing the opposite wall. He doesn’t want to watch the sunrise. Not like he’s gonna get the full effect of it anyway. And god, he’s exhausted. He doesn’t have any plans until six in the evening, so if he passes out for the first half of the day, he’ll be fine. There’s a half-empty water bottle sitting on his nightstand, and George is acutely aware of its presence, but he doesn’t make a move to grab it and take a swig. He doesn’t move at all. He stares at the wall until his eyes burn and he has to blink. Somewhere in the cycle of staring and blinking, he manages to slip away into unconsciousness.

George’s dreams… They don’t mean much to him. It was different when he was younger, but now, he can’t recall having a strong feeling about anything he dreams of except for ‘vaguely unpleasant’, and that’s only in the rare chance he remembers one. The connection he has with his dreams might be something more important in the moment, but once he wakes, it all turns to smoke and ash. Smoke, because it vanishes right before his eyes. Ash, because even if it’s right there in front of him, it’ll disappear when he touches it. George can barely remember what he dreams of, even if the content seems all-encompassing whilst he’s inside the dream. The dream that his REM directs to him this early morning is a dream that he’s had before, not that he’d remember. He’s in the sky, floating above the ocean. No, not floating… Flying. He’s flying. One quick look over a shoulder and a background knowledge of Greek mythos give him an idea as to what might be going on. Bronze wings secured to his back and wrists, carrying him through the salty breeze. He must be Icarus. He tries to send a message to his arms that’ll allow him to take control of the flight, but it doesn’t work. Hm… Maybe it’s typical, maybe it’s the one time he can’t control his movements. His dreams are a fleeting thing that only exist once in his subconscious, and once they’re gone, it’s unlikely he’ll remember them in his waking hours. He’s a little confused, a little bored. What’s a guy supposed to do when he’s caught up in the wind? He recognizes that he’s slowly getting higher and higher from both the increasing heat on his face and his general knowledge of the myth of Icarus. Doomed to fly too close to the sun, get too ambitious, want too much… Is Icarus greedy? Maybe he wants to see Apollo up close? No matter the reason, his fate is the same. The wax that fastens wings to his body is destined to melt, and Icarus falls.

George can’t get hurt in his dream, probably. So when the sun’s rays start to beat down a little too harshly and become a bit too blinding, and his back starts to burn from the sharp sting of melting wax, he feels like he should be more fearful, but what’s there to be scared of? He’s just dreaming, and he knows the story he’s stuck inside. Sure, Daedalus is nowhere to be found, but that slight inaccuracy is too negligible to affect George. He can’t even admire the glittering sea below him. Stories describe it as teal, but he doesn’t know what the beauty of blue-green waters really holds. It’s nothing spectacular to him, meaning he’s just got to deal with flying without control until his dream decides it wants to progress. It’s getting harder to look at the sun, and there’s a layer of sweat starting to build up on his forehead and palms, and his back and wrists are severely uncomfortable, so George hopes it won’t be too much longer until the dream just  _ gets on with it _ already. Maybe his dream is screwing with him? Maybe it wants him to be fearful for his life, and that’s the only way it’ll continue? But...he’s not scared. And he’s not good at acting scared; he’s been labelled by himself, his friends, and his fans as one of the worst actors on the Dream SMP for crying out loud.

He stares up at the sun. It’s probably something close to idiotic, but his eyes are already messed up and this isn’t real life. And maybe it’s just his opinions on Icarus bleeding into his psyche, but he thinks he wants to get a little closer to the sun. He wonders, if he gets close enough, will he see Apollo in his chariot? Is this what Icarus felt? The metal wings start to flap a little faster, raising him higher. Closer to the sun… He’s getting closer to being done with the dream. Nice. The sweat on his brow turns from a slight film into beads, and they drip slowly down his face. It feels… It feels gross, quite frankly. He’d be badly sunburned if this was real life. He cringes at the feeling of his own sweat dripping down his body and soaking his clothes, but the cringing is stopped by a hiss of pain and a muttered curse. The wax is hot, close to being fully liquefied, and by God, it burns. George sees a shadow in the sun. A figure, a body. Apollo? Maybe… Not like any iterations of Apollo he’d seen before, he notes as the body’s outline clears up. This part of the dream branches away from what George usually experiences here, but he’s got no way of knowing that. This character isn’t his Apollo. The hair isn’t a shimmering golden, there’s no armor. The first things he can clearly see are hands. Hands covered by-

No.

_ No. _

His dreams can’t be doing this to him. Aren’t they supposed to provide him with a break from real life?! He’s angered by the body’s hands and the fingerless leather gloves that cover them. Is his dream mocking him  _ with _ Dream? Is that what sick joke this all is? Is that why, try as George might, he can’t see the face of the figure who emerges from the sun? What. The. Hell. Is. This. He wants to call out to who he’s sure is Dream and get some damn answers, but there’s no sound that comes out of his mouth. That’s what startles him. His mouth is open and he can feel a sort of tightness in his chest that comes from an attempt to speak but it’s not working out for him. The air is uncomfortably hot, and it’s a dry sort of heat, nothing like humidity he’s heard so much about from Dream himself. So the dry air doesn’t add to his sweat, but the arid heat facilitates the dream in sucking the vitality out of him. He needs answers from maybe-Dream. The wings are still desperately attempting to lift him up and bring him closer; he’s finally been granted permission by whatever governs dream logic to reach out his left hand in front of him and try to grasp one of maybe-Dream’s hands in his own. But maybe-Dream fades, slipping away like the mirage he most likely is. Moving further up, farther into the sun, and George is willing to follow. The distance is getting smaller and smaller, they’re just inches apart, and George is burning. There’s something inside him that compels him to want more. The rational part of his brain knows that it’s what the dream wants, not him, but he can’t defy the role that the dream’s script had dictated for him. So he reaches further, despite the ache in his arm, until it finally happens.

The wax has melted away completely. George had gotten caught up in the madness, tempted by Apollo, or the Dream-hybrid version of him. He knew it was coming, of course he did. He made an attempt to resist, but he got greedy and it screwed him over. He can’t be upset, or scared, or even angry at himself or maybe-Dream or the dream itself. As he begins his quick descent towards the lackluster sea, all he can do if huff out a slightly annoyed sigh. Maybe once he hits the water he’ll wake up? That’d be nice… He’s done with this dream, done with how the one person he was trying to get out of his mind wormed his way into his subconscious. The wings have fallen off of him entirely, and it’s not as if he can be even slightly aerodynamic as he tumbles and flips as he heads towards the ocean. He wonders what it’ll feel like to hit the surface. Realistically, crashing into the sea from the elevation he’d been at would kill him, but he doesn’t exactly think he can die in a dream. It takes a few seconds for him to near the surface of the water, and when he flips around so that he can look back up, the vision of Dream is gone; he’s vanished into thin air. His somersaults as he hurtles towards sea level are pretty impressive, but George realizes then that he’s never been this athletic in real life. He’s tempted to start laughing, but if he starts, he won’t be able to stop before he chokes on a mouthful of briney seawater.

So he shuts his mouth tight, but he’s damn sure the velocity at which he’s traveling will make all his best efforts mean absolutely nothing. A sick metaphor for his real life, or he’s just being incredibly pessimistic. Only a few more seconds, now hopefully it doesn’t hurt. The seemingly desaturated water appears murky as he gets closer, and he’s got no clue as to what might be waiting for him inside it. At this point… He just doesn’t care. He slept to try and clear his mind, but this is worse - George considers it a good thing he won’t remember what he’s going through when he wakes.

Three… He wonders if he should even bother plugging his nose with one of his hands to keep water from shooting up inside it.

Two… Does he aim to hit the water in a certain way? Like try to dive or suck it up and belly flop despite the sting it would cause?

One… Is closing his eyes worth it? He thinks so, ‘cause it’s not like he could see what’s there anyway, and the salt would be irritating.

Zero. The water is cold, it freezes George on impact. He didn’t expect it to be so chilly so quickly; his teeth are chattering inside his closed mouth. Strangely, the impact didn’t feel like anything major, it was as if he’d jumped into a community pool from a standard diving board. He’s immensely confused, but decides that there’s no use in questioning dream logic. Since he’s probably a few feet under the surface (his eyes remain closed), he reckons the best course of action would be to swim upwards, maybe tread water for a bit and figure out what to do next, considering he never saw land his entire time in the sky… He thinks he’s regained his bearing enough to start moving up, but he’s stuck. His limbs have the ability to move freely, but George doesn’t go anywhere. He’s- He’s running out of air, dammit, and now he’s stuck down here? The dream let him survive a deadly fall, but here’s where they draw the line? He grimaces behind still-closed lips, his clenched jaw making his teeth grind together with uncomfortable pressure, and opens his eyes. He hates the feeling and squints hard, trying to keep his eyes as closed as possible. He doesn’t understand why he can’t move. He’s going through the motions, he’s intending to breach the water’s surface. But he’s stoic. He knows he has to breathe soon - again, he’s not Poseidon - but he’s terrified. This is just a dream, sure, but being stuck underwater is a scary experience whether you’re really living through it or not. But he can’t die, and that’s the one thing that prompts him to believe that everything’s okay.

He’s fine.  _ I’m drowning. _ He’s dreaming.  _ I’m drowning. _

He can’t hold his breath any longer, his mouth falls open with a forceful exhale, and as he inhales sharply, water floods into him, filling his mouth and traveling down his throat. He waits for the pain, the burn, even the nasty taste of salt, but he doesn’t get any of that. A shaky inhale through his nose confirms his suspicions. He’s  _ breathing _ and he’s perfectly fine. The look on his face must be something shocked; maybe an arched eyebrow and an incredulous sparkle in his eyes… He’s breathing underwater for God’s sake, of course he looks beyond baffled. Just like when he was awake and in the bath, his lips twist into a smile, and he’s ready to laugh. And here, somehow protected, he does just that. The sound of his own laughter from underwater is something strange, warped and warbled and just a bit higher in pitch than normal. There are small bubbles escaping his mouth with each peal of laughter. It’s surreal. He should be drowning, but he’s breathing, and smiling, and laughing. He’s content here. The water has him trapped, but he’s not overwhelmed. George is fine, even while chained in the ocean’s clutches. It makes him laugh harder. He forgets why he even fell into the ocean depths, he’s more than satisfied with his situation, cackling below the surface with the newfound confidence that knowing one of the world’s rawest elements has no power over him. He’s got power here in his dream. His dream… He’s dreaming. None of this is real, obviously. He’s dreaming, and he knows it. He knows every dream, every fantasy, must come to its end.

Before George knows it, he’s blinking himself awake and trying to get his chin off the damp puddle of drool that had pooled on his pillow. He mumbles one sleepy sound or another, eyes puffy and lips swollen. His room is certainly more illuminated than it was when he fell asleep, more of a gray than a blue, but he still can’t determine the exact time. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand and it’s only then when the memory of leaving it dead on the floor resurfaces. His arms are shaky from hours of being sleep-stiff, but he manages to push himself up to a seated position. He can see one of his shut-down computers with bleary eyes, and he’s forced to look upon the reflection on the black screen, seeing the way his dark hair sticks out at any and all angles until he tears his gaze away. He can’t move for a few minutes, not asleep but not yet awake, and he tries to unscramble his tired brain for any clues as to what the past few hours had entailed… More turmoil over his feelings for Dream, taking a shower and bath, and being able to breathe underwater. Well… His memory provided him with all three claims, but he’s quite certain there’s one that  _ didn’t _ happen. It takes massive amounts of determination to tear himself out of his bed and stumble sleepily towards his desk. He’s slow-moving from how tired he still is, but eventually he grabs his phone and staggers back towards his bed. He moves as if he’s in a hypnotic trance, plugging his charger into his phone and collapsing once again on his mattress. He still feels so tired, and kind of sweaty… Uncomfortably so. He worries for a moment, beginning to question if he has a fever. That wouldn’t bode well at all. He strips himself of the sweater and hopes that’ll cool him down. He clicks the power button on his phone at least twelve times before it powers on, letting him know he’s now on one percent battery and currently charging. And along with that-

_ Oh, dear God… _

The pixels communicate to him that it’s 7:17 in the evening, and also takes the care to tell him about a few Snapchat messages from Sapnap and Bad, and two missed calls from Dream on Discord. How long had he been asleep for? How much of his day did he miss? Sapnap had planned to do his stream starting at six o’clock P.M. in George’s time, so maybe if George joined now, things would be okay? His stomach growls at him almost menacingly, sounding a bit like a sick amalgamation of Minecraft mobs, and George realizes he can’t even remember the last time he ate something. It seems like life is too much all at once, and the call of sleep is so endearing yet again… But George would feel terrible bailing with no explanation. The slight horror that had filled him when he realized how terribly he’d overslept had made his blood run cold, cold enough to regulate his body temperature, so George guesses that maybe not everything about his situation is terrible. He’s tired, hungry, and full of guilt, but at least he’s no longer profusely sweating as if he’d been standing out in the sun for hours. Another three minutes and he’s in his desk chair with his headset already on, booting up his main computer. His phone is still charging, but now it’s next to him via an extension cord with way too many wires plugged up into it. The title of Sapnap’s stream says that he’s accompanied by both Bad and Dream, so texting one of those two about his arrival won’t really do much. He’ll just have to hop on himself without any warning. Not his first choice, but oversleeping by a long shot got him stuck up in the mud, and the concept of first choices is far, far gone. Another couple of minutes and he’s got everything ready. He joins the Teamspeak call and hears Bad pause in the middle of his sentence as he hears the notification.

“George, is that you?” Bad sounds happy to be in his supposed presence, which is a source of comfort, and George is glad he was the first person to acknowledge him; he feels incredibly guilty and wants to apologize to Sapnap, which leaves a heavy pit in his stomach, but coming right out of the gate apologizing would make him feel more awkward. And Dream… He hasn’t been able to handle Dream right after waking up for a few weeks now, ever since he figured out his feelings.

“Yup, s’me.” George is trying his hardest to put on the high-energy facade for the sake of Sapnap’s viewers, but he’s running on fumes even after getting more sleep than he intended, and he can’t help but slightly slur his words. His half-lidded eyes glance towards the ever-moving chat, and he already sees a few comments questioning if he’s drunk. Someone messaging ‘sobernotfound???’ has him not exactly laughing, but exhaling through his nose a substantial amount. “Sorry ‘m so late, Sap. Up late after Karl’s stream. Overslept, phone dead…” This is such an embarrassment, oh God- He clears his throat and rubs his eyes aggressively, as if that can wake him up. “I feel terrible, I should’ve made sure my phone was charging, that I had my alar-”

“Gogy,” He’s interrupted by Sapnap himself who sounds more concerned than anything else. “You sound like you’re kinda out of it, bud. I know we had plans, but if you’re not feeling good, please go and take care of yourself.”

“I-” Shame courses through George’s veins and makes his ears turn rose red. He takes a practiced deep breath. He won’t make errors in his speech. He’s all good. He’s got an image to keep up. “Really, I’m fine. And I want to be here for the rest of the stream. And can I maybe gift you subs? As an apology? Does one hundred sound good? I can do more, or-”

“George.” Sapnap interrupts him again, stressing his name. “You don’t owe me anything, c’mon, man. Just gimme some moral support for the speedrun attempts like we talked about. Okay?” The way he says ‘okay’ leaves no room for argument on George’s part. He nods in hesitant agreement and mentally slaps himself upside the head when he remembers he can’t be seen. So he verbally agrees to it then, happy for the conversation to end and the newfound option to just slip into normal stream conversation. George spares another glance towards the chat, and nearly half of them are talking about how Dream’s gone all quiet since George entered the stream. It has George feeling two different ways, neither of them positive. First, he’s a little peeved that Sapnap’s stream isn’t talking about  _ Sapnap. _ I mean, the guy just made a great maneuver in the tricky nether terrain he walked into, and most of them aren’t mentioning it! George congratulates Sapnap on the move himself, because apparently he’s the only person who will. Second, he becomes more self-conscious. Was it a coincidence, or did Dream go silent because George had joined? The latter seemed unlikely; Dream had no reason to be wary of George. It was probably just a poorly timed coincidence that did wonders for screwing up George’s confidence regarding his status with his best friend. He  _ knows _ Dream isn’t avoiding him, but with the chat unknowingly force-feeding him that theory, George can’t get his correct assumption through his thick skull.

Even though George finds Dream’s silence disconcerting, he comes to realize it’s a much better alternative than what actually happens - Dream speaks up after a minute or two, and George can almost see the playful smirk that Dream would be wearing as he delivers his line. His voice drips in something like honey and venom as he asks, “Isn’t anybody curious? What had our little Gogy up so late?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it to the end, hello hello hello!! I wish from the bottom of my heart that you found enjoyment in this fic, and if you've got the time or willingness, it'd mean the world to me if someone dropped a kudos or even a comment ;; I don't have a consistent upload schedule with specific days and times, but I will be trying my hardest to get one chapter posted every 1-2 weeks! If some more interest is generated, I'll probably be faster with uploads hahah,, i hope your time spent reading this was worthwhile!!!!  
> Make sure to stay hydrated!  
> Lots of love from Galactic!


	2. Through The Fire And The Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " He’s got no chance, so it makes him feel a little guilty for liking George. And he doesn’t just like him, he’s in love with the man. Dream is absolutely infatuated with George; he’s felt this way since a month after they first started to talk years ago. When Dream falls for someone, he falls hard and fast. And as he’s grown, so have his feelings. Sure, he still wants nothing more than to clasp George’s smaller hand in his own (it’d probably be so soft…), lace their fingers together, and do that cliche-but-cute thing where he’d rub his thumb up and down on George’s milky skin. That’s not all he wants, though, and that’s where the guilt starts to set in. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all who have given me support on chapter 1, thank you! My motivation stays strong because of you!!! This chapter largely contains Dream's perspective on things, and oftentimes he compares flirting/love to weapons, and there's the beginning of a panic spiral, so I just wanted to put that out there as a quick content warning! We've seen water in chapter 1, and now I'd like to introduce you to fire. also hfdjhjhsgkj this gets a little sexual at points,,, nothing explicit but there are heavier vibes
> 
> Happy reading!

Dream knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows the risky game of social interaction, keeping people tucked away safe in his back pocket or dancing on the puppet strings tied around his knuckles. He knows people like he knows code. He understands algorithms like he understands chess. It’d be a lie to say he started doing YouTube and being a content creator just for fame, but it’d also be a lie to say he didn’t use his people skills to propel him further in the world of media. He loves his fans to death, and he also knows he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without the assistance of his friends (whom he also loves to death). So… It’s less ‘manipulation’ and more ‘using his natural charm to amplify the advantages he’s beyond lucky to have’. They still both don’t sound too good… But Dream has a habit of making himself sound worse than he actually is. It’s not something he reveals to others, for starters, he doesn’t want pity points. And he can’t have the general public know of his bad habit when he’s got a fair amount of people who hate him for  _ no goddamn reason _ trying to villainize him 24/7. So the self-villainization (if that’s not a thing, Dream is making it so) remains secret, as it probably should. If his friends were to find out, they’d worry, and Dream wouldn’t know how to handle that. His friends wouldn’t know how to handle that, either. To them, not to mention to the rest of the world save for antis, Dream is confident (bordering on cocky, sometimes) and flirtatious and endearing and humorous. And, sure, Dream thinks he’s all those things too, but he knows there’s more to himself that he doesn’t plan on having his friends know. So he keeps up his online persona, because it’s easy. It’s not fake, it’s just… not entirely himself.

The best example he could probably provide is his rapport with George. According to the fans, they’ve got a great relationship. That’s the truth. The fans have different interpretations on whether they want to see his and George’s relationship as romantic or platonic, and both creators have said they’re fine with either interpretation. Shipping is a part of fan culture that they both accept and embrace. So when Dream flirts with George during streams, it’s the truth. Not only because the ‘DNF shippers’ are viewing their truth…

Because Dream knows what he’s doing, and means everything he says. The viewers see the tip of the truth iceberg, they see the playful banter, they watch George’s cheeks color with a rosy pink blush whenever Dream pushes a little further than normal, and they hear how Dream’s voice falters on the occasions when George decides he’ll retaliate. They just don’t know of what’s below the surface, like that Dream injects lethal sincerity into each one of his words. He shoots his flirtations out towards George like they’re fire-tipped bolts for a crossbow, and he watches with an intense stare as they land directly where Dream had aimed - in George’s throat, moving in tandem with his Adam’s apple when he swallows nervously on camera. Those bolts that burn and blister George’s skin are for the heavier dalliances, like when Dream whispers into his microphone that George deserves to be punished. But the coquettish remark he gave tonight is more innocent in nature, it’s delicate. He asked two simple questions, “Isn’t anybody curious? What had our little Gogy up so late?” and he wishes that he could see George’s face right now. He wants to see the way his butterfly knife queries graze the apples of George’s cheeks to rouge them up without breaking skin.

He’s just so  _ pretty _ when he blushes, and Dream has an obsession with being the person to color George’s skin with the pink hues of sunrise. It fills him with a sense of pride whenever something he says becomes the reason George has to glance off to the side to regain composure. He’s studied the older man’s mannerisms, has all of their meanings nearly memorized. The small facecam in George’s stream, tiny as it may be, never conceals anything. Dream can still see the way George will freeze for a moment when a flirtatious comment is directed his way; Dream can still see how George’s head cocks ever so slightly to the side as he registers what exactly has been said to him. He wishes he could see him now…

And quite honestly, Dream hates himself for it. Just because he has feelings for George doesn’t mean the feelings are reciprocated. Besides, as far as Dream is concerned, George is straight. He’s got no chance, so it makes him feel a little guilty for liking George. And he doesn’t just  _ like _ him, he’s in love with the man. Dream is absolutely infatuated with George; he’s felt this way since a month after they first started to talk years ago. When Dream falls for someone, he falls hard and fast. And as he’s grown, so have his feelings. Sure, he still wants nothing more than to clasp George’s smaller hand in his own (it’d probably be so soft…), lace their fingers together, and do that cliche-but-cute thing where he’d rub his thumb up and down on George’s milky skin. That’s not all he wants, though, and that’s where the guilt starts to set in. He’d love to hold George’s hand, yes, but he’d also love to pin it down against his pillow next to his head. He’d love to look down at George and see his beautiful blush in person. He’d break the dark-eyed man down to nothing but ashes and build him back up piece by piece when he deems fit. Dream loves violently; his love comes in the form of weaponry. His lips are icy blades that he wishes could travel across the expanse of George’s skin and make his breath hitch in his throat. His fingers are grenades that detonate with a fiery force that he wishes could make George burst and see nothing but white.

“I just couldn’t sleep.” George’s quiet voice filters through Dream’s headphones. It takes him out of the self-induced trance, thankfully, because Dream’s face had started to get a little warm. The blonde quickly blinks his way back to reality, fantasies of George (and the things Dream would like to do with him) starting to dissipate like smoke. He’d meant the questions as a flirty joke, but hearing that George’s sleep troubles were the actual cause of the oversleeping, a frown starts to appear on Dream’s face. He wants to voice his concern, but he knows anything he says will be clipped and spread like wildfire - he saw it happen yesterday when George said “I trust my Dream” - and his personal worry for his best friend is something he’d rather keep private.

Bad expresses his concern publicly with a wish that everything was alright for George and a hope for him to regain a consistent sleep schedule. Sapnap echoes the general message but adds a slightly sarcastic dig that he can’t get through without lighthearted laughter -  _ “Get your sleep in check so you don’t miss my awesome content.” _ \- and Dream realizes he’s the only one who hasn’t spoken… He weighs his options, mulling them over like he would consider his next move in a game of chess. At the same time he pulls out his phone, he comes to a decision on what to say. “Were you thinking about me?” He’ll keep with the slightly flirty nature, keep the bit going for a little while longer. His tone is light and playful, but his worry takes over every other part of his being, everything that the viewers can’t see. He’s firing a quick text to George:  _ are you alright??? _

Dream isn’t expecting George to fire back with a “Yeah, actually,” and it leaves him floored. He almost chokes on his own saliva. He can’t even stammer out his typical ‘ _ What?!’ _ before George continues, his speech broken up by giggles. “But you were my nightmare instead of my dream.” At this point, Sapnap is howling with laughter, Bad is quietly chuckling and appreciating the pun, Sapnap’s chat is having a field day with their ‘DNF moment’, and Dream hasn’t recovered. His jaw is on the floor. He had no idea where George was going to go with that, but there was no way he could have expected such a corny joke. Dream is sure that there’s some color on his cheeks; it’s a mix of being flustered and typical Florida weather. Mostly the weather. He’ll tell himself it’s mostly the weather. The more times he does that, maybe he’ll start to believe it. He knows he can’t be stunned into silence for too much longer, there’s gotta be something he can do to spin this back in his favor.

“So you’re telling us that no matter  _ what _ I am, I’m still yours?” That ought to do it. He glances at one of his computers to look over the chat. He notes some messages that fly by at top speed like ‘HFKJDSHGDKJLHJ’ and ‘OMG NO HE DID NOT’ and ‘some people: don’t ship CCs. the CCs: ’. Dream finds it quite amusing.

“I-” George can’t seem to get more than that word out, and Dream is gloating in his victory. To Dream’s dismay (and George’s delight that Dream is unaware of), their back and forth is cut off by a groan of agony from Sapnap. It occurs to Dream, then, that he hasn’t been paying attention to the actual content of the stream, and it makes him feel a little bad. He’ll drop whatever he was doing with George and turn his attention to what he was actually here for. The familiar red-orange glow of his computer indicates that Sapnap had died in a pool of lava. The poor guy…

“Ah, that sucks,” Dream laments the death with him. He empathizes with Sapnap, feels his best friend’s pain. Sapnap had been having an efficient run, too, making some great time. “Give it another try, c’mon!” Bad and George start to hype Sapnap up as well, and Dream grins as he imagines the radiant smiles both of them are likely sporting. God, he really loves his friends so much. All his friends, all his fans, they’ve given him everything. He’ll be grateful for the rest of his life for all the fortune they’ve given him. It’s more than fortune, though. More than fame and riches; that stuff is nice, of course, but he cares about more important things. A sense of community, a place to belong, and happiness above all else. Ah… Now he’s feeling sentimental. The rest of the stream continues with a sense of normalcy, and Dream is more than okay with that. He’s less likely to slip up and say something he regrets when the four of them are able to have their little symbiotic relationship. He loves the bond that the four of them have… He can’t ruin it, he’d never let himself live with the knowledge that he ruined what they all have, so Dream stays quiet about his feelings. And he’s fine to do that! It stings a little, but it’s better in the long run, especially when he knows confessing would lead directly to rejection…

Though Dream is content right now with the light and airy feeling the stream gives him, there’s something that gnaws away at him. George hasn’t texted him back. He’s bound to be on his phone, right? George had said his phone had died when he’d joined the Teamspeak, but it had to be charging now, right? I mean, he  _ did _ eventually see the time and the brunette has said before that his bedside alarm clock has been untouched for ages so the only logical conclusion is that George has to have a semi-charged or currently charging phone so - Dream takes a deep, slow breath, calming his frazzled nerves - why hasn’t George answered him? He knows he’s likely overthinking things, knows that George probably just isn’t using his phone right now. And there’s a good reason for that, they’re supposed to be participating in a stream! George is attentive, Bad is engaged, Sapnap is running a great stream…and Dream is entirely out of the loop. So it’s a good thing he’s become a much better actor in recent months.

The stream lasts for a total of three hours, Sapnap ending it with a hint towards the next video he’ll be posting on YouTube and a raid with a party of forty-thousand for Karl who’d just started his stream. Dream looks down at his phone - no notifications are from George, so there are no notifications he cares about - and notes that it’s just a few minutes past four in the afternoon. They all stay on the Teamspeak call for a few minutes after streams end, either talking about the past few hours, some future plans, or just generally catching up. Moments like these, the private ones. Dream likes them; there’s less pressure on him. He doesn’t have to worry about having an audience of tens of thousands of people, so if he slips up and says something to George that’s a little too personal, it’s fine. Sapnap, Bad, and all his other friends that could potentially be on call won’t judge him. The only person he needs to worry about…

George.

George who’s cheerful on the Teamspeak, cracking jokes with Bad. George who’s tweeting out  _ i should be in the thumbnail of your new video :] @sapnapalt _ on his alternative account at this very second (that Dream sees because he has George’s tweet notifications on). George who’s on his phone, as told by the ‘Twitter for iPhone’ at the bottom of his tweet. George who must have seen his message by now. George who’s ignoring Dream. Did Dream push things too far? Was bringing up the ‘my Dream’ thing crossing a line he hadn’t even known existed? He’s curious. He needs answers. Dream won’t do a double text; it’ll make him seem clingier than he actually is. He’ll just start overthinking things. His mind starts to cave in on itself, and soon enough he’s trapped inside his head, caged by iron bars the same sickly gray shade as brain matter. There’s only one direction he can go to escape the cage. Down. Dream walks in socked feet down a steep, spiraling staircase. It’s made of ice, and chills his feet to the bone with enough intensity to make them burn from the cold. The banister, too, is icy; Dream’s forced to rip his hand away before it permanently freezes to the railing. It’s hard for Dream to keep his balance this way, what with nothing to grip and a slippery material to walk on. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t stop, why he can’t stop. He keeps walking, jogging, something propels him to start  _ running _ and he’s losing his balance, he’s losing all sense of direction and he can’t see the bottom of the staircase, he only sees a blackness that’s blacker than black and he’s slipping and he’s falling and he’s tumbling into the void and he’s losing oxygen and-

“Dream!”

“George?” Dream utters nothing but a weak wheeze when he calls out for the disembodied voice that stopped his descent into the darkness. His heart is racing, and there’s a layer of sweat that had developed on his body - not from the Floridian humidity. He’s back in his gaming chair, staring at his monitors. He tries to gasp for air as quietly as possible, noting things in his room he can see and touch to ground himself back in reality.

“Dream.” George repeats his name with intensity, there’s a certain type of gravity to it. Concern mixed with severity. Dream exhales a tiny bit of laughter. All his worrying about George ends up with the older man worrying about him. “I’ve been calling your name for a minute or so.”

Dream blanches. Ironic. George is clearly worried about Dream, and the blonde himself is the one ignoring George…unintentionally, of course. Were Sapnap and Bad concerned, too? Damn it all, making his friends fret over him is the one thing he wishes he could avoid forever. “Shit, I’m sor-”

“Don’t apologize.” Dream can hear the unease in George’s voice as he’s interrupted. “We figured you had muted or something, then we realized you must have gotten lost in thought. Bad and Sap said their goodbyes and logged out.” There’s a pause that weighs heavy in the air, the silence feels like lead seeping through Dream’s bones. “It’s just us here…” The way George says it, so careful and so delicate… It’s whispered instead of spoken, a breathy few words, flowing from Dream’s ears to his heart, soothing his worries. God, he’s really in deep. “Just us.” George says it like a promise of forever - or, at least, that’s how Dream hears it. “Did something happen, Dream?”

Dream’s fingers are twitching at his sides, fluttering in the darkness of his room like butterflies in the wind. It’s not like he can outright say the thought of George ignoring him sent him spiraling… That’d worry the brunette even further and Dream knows he’s not in a good enough headspace to handle that. “I got a little overwhelmed,” It’s the truth, mostly… Dream is still wheezy. He clears his throat quietly in an attempt to get his voice back with full strength. “Nothing to worry about.”

“You’ll let me know if there is, right?” George sounds worried. Dream can imagine what he looks like: Mocha eyes shining with uncertainty, dark brows furrowed and creasing his skin, pretty pink lips pressed together in a thin white line… Dream’s thoughts can’t describe how stunning George is. He doesn’t think his words will be able to, either, so he’ll definitely have a time and a half when they eventually meet in person for the first time. Dream can’t help but feel vulnerable. Being worried about is unnatural, unnerving. He needs to deflect things away from him.

“Are  _ you _ gonna let me know if there’s something that needs worrying about?” Dream is grateful that life has given him the proper circumstances to rotate the conversation one-hundred-eighty degrees so it faces right back onto George. “Like, you know, sleep troubles?” There’s a bit of confidence worming its way back into Dream’s voice. He’s grateful for that, too.

“I-”

Dream only lets George get one word out. He’s climbed back up on his golden throne of confidence, a crown of fire as hot as his growing boldness. “And it had something to do with me, right, George? I think that means I should know.” There’s a smirk plastered on Dream’s face that stretches out his chapped lips almost to the point of pain. He’s got a desire for control that burns like red-hot coals in the pits of his stomach; it makes hazy visions of George staring up at him with half-lidded eyes dance around his head. And he has enough faith in George that if he pushes too far, he’d tell him to stop. “Especially after hearing you say I was-” Dream gets closer to his microphone, letting his voice drop to a lower register. “-your nightmare.” There’s emphasis on the word  _ your _ . Dream isn’t letting himself get drunk on the feeling of regained confidence, a stark contrast from his distress minutes ago. But he’s coming close. He’s tipsy, a light blush on his cheeks from the imaginary wine. He wants to hear it again. He wants to hear George say that Dream is his. And Dream wants to say that George is  _ his _ \- only his. There’s something raw and guttural inside of Dream that wants to claim George as his own, glare daggers at anyone who dared to try and take the shorter man away from him. He… he knows the possessiveness is bad. George isn’t his, and he never will be. Dream just doesn’t want to accept reality yet. He likes his visions. His fantasies. His dreams.

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Has George neared his mic as well? Dream thinks so… George’s voice is heavier, closer. And…what is he talking about? Right when Dream thought he had regained all the swagger he’d lost, he’s impaled directly between his third and fourth ribs with a spear of confusion. “At least, not really. I kinda just wanted to make a joke.” George is giggling now, and Dream swears the universe is playing him, because that’s the exact moment the sun decides to come out of hiding from behind the clouds.

“Elaborate…?” The blonde asks.

“I never remember my dreams. S’been that way for years now. Just bits and pieces stick with me when I wake up, and that’s only rarely.” George sighs. “It gets a little annoying, ‘cause like, I know I dream. They just always leave me.”

“But you remembered me?” Dream asks the question in a hushed whisper, then realizes he probably sounds a little too intrigued for his own good. There’s gotta be a way to lighten this before it gets to be too deep for an afternoon chat. He’ll let a low chuckle escape his lips. “Or was that for the joke, too?”

“I remembered you.” George isn’t laughing. He sounds serious. His tone is soft. Dream can feel it. It’s cold and smooth and fragile, something like fine china or glass. “It’s washed out. Like… Desaturated. Blurry and translucent and it fades by the second, but… I remembered you.” It sounds as if George is speaking through a clenched jaw.

“George-”

“Something about sunshine. You were there, and so was the sun.”

“George…” Dream has an idea.

“I remembered you,” George is ignoring Dream, and the taller man doesn't know if George had even heard him or not. “You, and the sun, and-”

“And…?” He prompts George on further, his idea slowly coming to fruition.

“And drowning.” George drops the news with a type of brevity he’d use to describe the weather in some passing small talk.

“George, how the hell is that ‘not really’ a nightmare?” The idea has to take a pause.

“Calm down, Dream,” George’s smile is something Dream can hear. “You didn’t let me finish.” Dream sighs.

“Continue, then.” There’s something about all the feelings Dream is experiencing at once that makes his request come out sounding like an order. He’s about to rectify it, tack on a ‘please’ at the end, but he doesn’t have to. George continues.

“I could breathe. That’s the final thing I remember.” George seems to be done; he’s gone quiet. Dream feels his heart racing, and he wasn’t even the one who had the dream. His lips are pursed, he’s working away silently. “Uh… Dream?” Right, he’s on the call.

“One sec?” The green-eyed man just needs another minute or so, and you’ll give it to him, George...right?

“Dream, wh-”

“The sun is supposed to represent happiness in, uh, waking life…” Dream’s fingers are loud as they whiz across his keyboard. “And some sort of truth or realization. Drowning is being ‘in too deep’ in a situation, but if it’s a whole breathing underwater feeling, you’re feeling helpless?” Dream mutters out a ‘that’s conflicting’ before continuing. “And, uh, having me in there-” Dream quickly scrolls past an article titled ‘If You Have A Sex Dream About Your Best Friend, Here’s What It Means’ with a cough and quickly reddening cheeks. “You’re feeling like everything is falling into place. Or reaching out for something to have as a last hope in a difficult situation.” Dream doesn’t like these websites. They’re too confusing, what with all their dissension between themselves.

“Dream, I thought I-” George pauses. “I… I did not. I thought I texted you back that everything was alright, but I, uh, never hit the send button.” Dream laughs, it’s a mix of self-pity and relief. George wasn’t ignoring him, which was a lovely thing, but Dream also got himself way too panicked for nothing.  _ Well, _ he thinks,  _ you win some and you lose some. _ “Now, I appreciate the insight, but can you  _ please _ fill me in as to what exactly you’re doing?”

“Oh- Yeah.” Dream laughs again, a little nervously. Was George going to think this was weird? Dream stares down his newly created Google document with the (affectionate) title ‘George sleep better’ and clears his throat. “I looked up what different stuff in dreams mean and typed it all out. Figured it might help…? I know you didn’t come to me for advice or anything, but maybe talking about what you  _ do _ remember could be a catalyst for you remembering more?”

“You’d do that for me?” George sounds astonished, and Dream wonders why. Is he really surprised that Dream would try to help him out? They are best friends after all. “I…” He sounds nervous, too, and all Dream wants to do is reach through the Teamspeak app and pull George through cyberspace, cage his smaller figure with his own, and hold him close, telling him there’s no reason to sound nervous. Because Dream cares. He cares with a blinding, blazing intensity.

“Of course I would,”  _ I love you. _ The three damning words dance on the tip of Dream’s tongue, doing pirouettes and arabesques and other ballet terms his sister has told him that he’s forgotten. “You’re my best friend.”  _ You’re so much more. _

“Right,” There’s something in the way George breathes out the word that sounds defeated, which Dream can note easily as a combination of his skills with people and his knowledge of George’s mannerisms. Had he made a mistake in something? Does he need to lighten the mood?

“And given my name,” This should work, this should make him laugh… “I’d consider myself qualified to help you out with your dream troubles.” It worked, thank God. George’s light laughter fills Dream’s eardrums, and it’s such a relief to be surrounded by the sound, something like windchimes.

“Wow,” George says, stretching out the vowel. “Wow. That was so dumb, you’re so dumb-”

“Hey!” Dream cuts him off with a shout. “So you get to make a corny joke and get away with it while  _ on stream _ but I can’t do it back?”

“Mine was actually funny!” George complains. “And it was hilarious to be privy to you getting all flustered.” Oh. Well. Funny moment over. Dream is momentarily hit with a stun gun, his lips slightly parted and his head tilted to the side in confusion, wondering where George has found his own bout of confidence in the past few weeks.

“I was not flustered,” Dream says indignantly. He will deny the accusations until his dying breath. “Just went quiet for a little.”

“You were,” George is probably smirking now, the bastard. Dream can imagine it from all the times he’s rewatched the rare occasions he’ll do it on a stream. He wants to wipe it off the older man’s face with a heated hand. Dream wants to kiss it away, wants to know if the feeling of his chapped lips against George’s soft ones would be enough to send lightning crackling through George’s veins. He hopes so… “I know you, Dream.”

Fine.  _ Fine. _ Two can play at this game, and if George wants to keep pushing it, Dream can be a little self-indulgent. “You really think so, Georgie?” The nickname. Dream only uses it when he’s trying to rile George up. “You think you know what gets me flustered? Think you can  _ make me _ flustered?”

“It’s not something that’s hard to believe when I do it so often…” Has George’s breath gotten heavier, or is Dream’s hearing telling him what he wants to hear? He’s unsure.

“Big talk coming from the guy that goes weak at nearly everything I say.” Dream’s blood is running hot, magma under the surface of his skin.

“I just sometimes indulge you, Dreamie.” Dream doesn’t have any idea of what’s going on across the Atlantic, how George feels about ready to pass out from the nerves. Which…is a good thing. “You’re so power hungry and I’m a kind person.”

“I think you want it sometimes, y’know?” Dream’s pulse is thundering through his ears, rushing like white river rapids. He doesn’t remember them ever going this far. “For me to take power. Take control. Make you weak.”

“Dream.” The name is spoken through gritted teeth.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” Yeah, Dream is having a wonderful time down here in Florida, and he can’t  _ believe _ he just said that to George while stone cold sober, so he’s beaming at his own courage. But George’s comfort matters to him more than anything, and he’ll stop in an instant if George needs him to. Dream is waiting near his microphone with baited breath; the choice on whether or not he continues isn’t up to him.

“No-” When George speaks, it sounds strangled, like the word needs to be ripped out of his throat in order to be heard. “I mean, you don’t have to. It’s fine.”

Is Dream dreaming? It’d be ironic, but he’s sure this is something straight out of one of his fantasies. Still, he’s not convinced. ‘Fine’ isn’t fine enough for him. “Tell me if you  _ want _ me to sto-”

“Don’t.” George is still speaking in that gritty tone, it’s like getting the words out is a painful task for him. Dream is on fire. He’s burning worse than red-hot. Blue and white flames consume his entire body, make his clothes stick to his skin, damp with sweat. This isn’t real, he’s convinced this can not be taking place in his current, conscious reality. But… It is real. He knows it, it’s just so hard to fathom. George’s permission to keep  _ whatever this is _ going rings sweet in his ears, a lilting melody. Dream never thought he’d get this far, at least not while he’s awake. He doesn’t have dreams to rely on that will propel him forward, it all comes down to him. He has no idea what to say when the decision is entirely his own. How far is too far? “I’m having fun.” When George breaks the silence, it dawns on Dream that he’d been so caught up in what to say, he’d unintentionally decided on saying nothing.

“Fun?” Dream echoes. The hot and heavy mood is disrupted once again by something Dream can’t quite place. His tendency to overthink things is what it is, but he’s blissfully unaware that he’s his own downfall. Dream wants answers. Fun for George in the way that hook-ups at high school parties are fun, exhilarating and carefree? Or fun for George in the way that this is just mindless teasing, and he isn’t taking this seriously?

“Yeah, fun,” It’s like the two of them are standing in a cave with the way the word continues to echo like it’s bouncing off the walls. Dream hopes none of the low-hanging stalactites will crush either of them. “I like talking to you.” That doesn’t really give Dream an actual answer… It could still go either way, George could be as involved in the exchange as Dream is, or he could just be having a calm evening. “The way you speak is nice, I like hearing the things you have to say. Your way of thinking is something beautiful, and it’s fun to hear how you talk.”

That’s a huge compliment. Dream knows his imaginative thinking and extended metaphors can be a little confusing for some, so being praised for something like that… It’s heartwarming. It’s gentle. That sweetness is saccharine; it’s so sweet that it hurts. Dream can’t deal with something like that, so he’ll try to divert the conversation back to something he knows he can handle. “Even when I talk about how fragile you are?”

George hastily sucks in a breath. Dream heard it for certain this time, he’s sure of it. “Tell me more about it, Dream.”

_ We’re really doing this? _ Dream asks himself.  _ Yes. _ is the answer his mind provides. “You’re glass, George. Ivory colored. Smooth and pale, and a little cold, and so, so fragile… Like if someone holds you a little too hard, you’ll shatter. Splinter apart into millions of broken pieces, y’know?”

“More?”

“I can’t decide if your sculpture is angel wings or a chalice. You’re angel wings because you’re uplifting and you’re celestial and you’re something far greater than just your average person. And you’re a chalice because you’re royal and you’re grand and you’re something everyone begs for a chance to taste from. I don’t know what you are, I just know you’re incredible.”

“More.”

“I know that you can’t handle being shattered, but like glass, you get worn out and every so often, you need to be revitalized somehow. Y’know how that can be done, right? How people melt glass, heat it up until it’s almost liquefied? I know that I’m the only person who should be able to do it. I know how to take care of something so brittle without snapping it in two. I know how to get you glowing red-hot and molten in my hands, and I know that I’m the only one who deserves to make you that way. I know that because I know  _ you. _ I know how to treat you with care. I’d never break you, George. Just deliquesce you - melt you, y’know - a little bit. I know I’d ignite you, I’d watch you burn scorching hot in my clutch.”

“Oh, God-”

“I know how to build you back up, too. Piece by piece, rebuilding that sculpture and letting each facet of it come back stronger than before, staying with you until you’ve cooled. I could be, no,  _ should _ be the one to do all these things to you because I know for damn certain that nobody can leave you smoldering like me. You’re glass, George. Pearlescent. Delicate.” Dream is breathless, his words are missing a sense of finality, there’s one more thing he needs to say before this is all over. He knows he’s walked too far into the fire and the smoke has left him blinded, so a shot in the dark is all he has. “Beautiful.”

“Dream,” George’s voice is so soft, and Dream can barely hear it. He’s surprised George’s microphone even picked up the sound. “Dream.” The volume is the same but the inflection is different. Like George is trying to speak to him, but the only word he knows is Dream’s name. A coil of heat sparks up in Dream’s abdomen, a sick sense of pride knowing that he was the one to reduce George down to this. “Dream…”

“I’m here, Georgie…” There’s no teasing tone to his voice this time when the nickname passes his lips; it’s spoken as a term of endearment, something to remind him that he’s not going anywhere.

“Dream, that was…” Is he crying? Dream swears on Patches that he heard that shuddering breath, that fear-inducing sound that Dream is all too familiar with. “You’re unbelievable.” Dream is void of all feeling. He’s gone through all too much emotional whiplash over this private Teamspeak call. Was that supposed to be a compliment? He’s about to ask for clarification, too numb to even worry, but thankfully George speaks up with more words than just Dream’s name. “That was gorgeous. I’m… I’m not good enough with words to express how gorgeous that was, but… It’s beautiful how you speak. Everything you said, I could imagine it so clearly.” There’s a bass drum booming where Dream’s heart should be, pounding hard on the quarter note. If George can imagine  _ this _ in vivid detail, what would happen if Dream ever let him in on his darker thoughts? If Dream told George about how he wants to scrape his nails, as sharp and jagged as needles, across his skin and leave thin rosy lines in their wake, how would George react? If Dream told George about how he wants to drape himself over George as if his own larger body is made of heavy iron chains used to hold George down and hold him close, what would George say? Dream thirsts to know. “The glass, the glowing, the being  _ molten, _ I felt it all.”

There’s a sound torn from Dream’s throat, a mix between a pained cry and an animalistic growl, that Dream can only describe as carnal. His body is thrumming with electricity. There’s static filling his brain and making his fingers twitch. He feels his pounding pulse everywhere, his heart, his throat, his head and his hands and his stomach… His breath enters and leaves his body in ragged bouts, his head is heavy as he holds it up with his hands, elbows propped up on his desk. “Did you like it?”

George is the breathless one now, exhaling a tiny ‘heh…’ “I think I might like it a little too much.” Dream closes his eyes, runs a hand through his sandy hair, and his fingers come away damp. Does George have any idea of what he’s saying? Of what he’s doing to Dream? “I think I should hang up now. Don’t know when I ate last and my stomach is getting angry at me.”

Dream’s eyes open as soon as George says that. Above all else, he’s George’s protective best friend; the dense heat dissolves and everything is back to normal. “Idiot. Go and get some food in yourself, and send me a pic of it so I know you did it.”

George sighs, but it’s something breezy; the brown-eyed man is content. “I think you sometimes forget you’re the younger one here, Dream.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” It’s like nothing ever happened. “Bye, Gogy.”

“Bye, Dreamie!” George’s cheerful tone indicates that he’s clearly smiling. Beaming, even, and Dream responds with an unseen smile of his own. George leaves the call, as does Dream, and the blonde is left alone in his room. The sunshine has left him, disappeared behind the clouds yet again, but the sticky heat still remains. He feels warm, he feels gross, and it’s a mix of physical and emotional symptoms. He’ll take a shower, he decides, something he hates but something he desperately needs. He hurries to the bathroom, ready to rid himself of the discomfort. It’s frigid when he steps in, as he should have expected, but Dream can’t help but wince. It’s nearly painful, it feels like sharp icicles are raining down on him and puncturing his skin. Dream is tense, but as the water temperature rises a bit, to a temperature that’s still a little cool but now  _ bearable, _ Dream starts to relax. He rests his left hand on the tile wall, stares down at his right hand reproachfully, grateful for how the spray of the water will be able to wash away all the traces of his guilt and shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehehe i like this chapter,,,, i like how Dream's character is turning out, too, especially after I was sat in front of my laptop for a bit having no idea of what I was going to do with him. If y'all have any questions or comments or stuff like that, I'd love to hear what's going through your head! I don't exactly plan things out before writing them, so i know as much about the next chapter as you guys do,,,heheh . . .  
> Make sure to smile!!  
> xoxo, Galactic


	3. Love When It Rains, 'Cause I'm Agoraphobic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " He’s not lying when he says he likes to hear Dream speak. Just because he’s envious of the skill the younger man has doesn’t mean he hates when he uses said skill. It’s nice to hear the things Dream has to say - the pictures he paints with his tongue are vibrant; George can visualize them with perfect clarity. His mind is once again projecting him back to the past, as much as he wants to fight it, and he’s brought back to Dream’s words. If they ever ended up together - in the same place at the same time, George means, there’s no way they’d ever be together in the going steady sense - would Dream do everything he said? Would Dream get him glowing red-hot? If Dream was truly speaking from the heart, and said that everyone begs for a chance to taste George, does the blonde count himself in the vast pool of everyone? Would Dream want to taste him, would he beg for it? "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3 is here ! i'm sorry it took so long to get out, and i will try to have chapter four posted within a week!! there aren't any content warnings needed for this chapter specifically, but i will say that some behaviors george exhibits are common in those who suffer from depression. yes, it's mostly me projecting.
> 
> anyway !!! happy reading ! and yes the chapter title is from agoraphobic. everyone stream agoraphobic <3

George is smiling as he ends the call, but as soon as he’s positive that he’s disconnected, the smile drops. His phone falls from his hand for a few inches before hitting the desk, and his shaky hands lift to his face. Like before in the bath, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes with harsh pressure. It hurts, but he can’t bring himself to stop just yet. The inner parts of his thin wrists are pressed up against his heated cheeks, and his fingers reach up past his hairline to tangle in the short, dark strands. He feels like he can’t breathe, his lungs are burning. Drowning even without the presence of water. When the sensation of pressure against his eyes becomes a bit too painful, he’ll take his hands off and let them crash against the desk, clenched into fists. His eyes and the skin surrounding them start to feel a little sore, and as he blinks back to cleared vision, he can feel the burn of tears welling up in his eyes. They’re not tears from sadness, or anger, or frustration; George knows this. It’s just a natural reaction to what he’d been doing moments prior.

Moments prior… George means when he had his hands against his eyes, but the phrase is heavy and takes him further back in time than he meant to go. Dream’s voice returns in his memory, more a ghost than anything else, playing directly in his head rather than out through the speaker on his phone. His voice, deep and smooth like amber honey, saying things like  _ ‘I’d ignite you’ _ and  _ ‘I’d watch you burn.’ _ Dream had called him  _ beautiful, _ for God’s sake, and it had brought George to near tears. They’d flirted before, both publicly and privately, but nothing compared to just minutes ago when Dream’s words seeped into George’s skin and lit up every synapse in his body. It had made George’s skin flush bright red from the tips of his ears down past the neckline of his shirt. He wasn’t lying when he said he could imagine everything Dream was saying so clearly. He knows what the man’s hands look like, he could imagine them running over the smooth planes of his chest and holding him down… Everything was so vivid. The blonde’s words had George turning red with desire - and green with envy.

Dream was so descriptive, so expressive with his words. Dream’s always like that. He’s honest and he’s open and he speaks his mind and it makes the claws of jealousy drag scratches down George’s back, because why can’t  _ he _ do that too? Dream’s words and the power they carry… Dream’s words that he’s unafraid to say. George’s hands, still in fists against the wood desk, squeeze tighter until they start to shake and his knuckles go white. He’s not mad at Dream for having such an easy time with talking, he’s just jealous. George’s own words always seem to fall flat, they’re always reserved. He thinks about each and every one of them before they slip past his lips, but all that thought can’t make anything  _ good _ come out. When he’s asked to give words of encouragement on stream, all he can offer is a pitiful  _ ‘You can do it’ _ with a smile he hopes provides more encouragement than his lackluster statement. When Dream pesters him on stream to say he loves him, George doesn’t. Because he can’t. He did it once, exasperated and flat, just to get Dream off his back. And he played it off with a laugh, concealing how his stomach was churning with discomfort. The worst instance of an  _ ‘I love you’, _ though, is from a while ago; he had been tricked into saying it when he read ‘isle of dream’ out loud. It brought about the same nauseating feeling. George and  _ ‘I love you’ _ just don't mix. And it’s not a thing of embarrassment, or that he’s just “some straight dude who can’t say he loves his bros” (he’s not even straight, but the world hasn’t been told), it’s just that he can’t do it. He does love Dream, he knows it. And he loves his other close friends, too, like Sapnap, Wilbur, Karl, Alex, Bad… He loves them all - the love he has for Dream is something more than platonic, but that’s besides the point - and he hopes they know it, despite him not being able to say it.

He’s said he loves people before. Just to his family members, though. Telling them he loves them is easy; he’s grown accustomed to it since he could first start talking, because his parents had instilled in him the belief that it was the most important thing to say, because “you’ll never know the last time you’ll see someone you love”. A bit of a morbid implication for a child, but George could wrap his head around the sentiment. Tell a person you love them before you lose them forever. It makes sense in theory, to George, but besides with his own family, he can’t put that theory into practice. It’d be nice to learn eventually, it’d be nice to be able to tell his best friends he loves them instead of just hoping they know, it’d be nice to loosen up with his words and let them flow out with ease. It would all be nice, but George has himself convinced that it’s just wishful thinking. In his mind, he’ll never be able to express himself the way he wants to, and he’ll stay envious of his friends - of Dream - for being able to speak so passionately.

He’s not lying when he says he likes to hear Dream speak. Just because he’s envious of the skill the younger man has doesn’t mean he hates when he uses said skill. It’s nice to hear the things Dream has to say - the pictures he paints with his tongue are vibrant; George can visualize them with perfect clarity. His mind is once again projecting him back to the past, as much as he wants to fight it, and he’s brought back to Dream’s words. If they ever ended up together - in the same place at the same time, George means, there’s no way they’d ever be together in the going steady sense - would Dream do everything he said? Would Dream get him  _ glowing red-hot? _ If Dream was truly speaking from the heart, and said that  _ everyone begs for a chance to taste _ George, does the blonde count himself in the vast pool of everyone? Would Dream want to taste him, would he beg for it?

George needs to take a deep breath, calm his nerves, and will the blood in his body to start its normal flow throughout his veins instead of pooling in areas like his cheeks, his ears, and…other places. A few more deep breaths, and George trusts himself enough to stand up and make his way towards the kitchen. His stomach is growling loudly at him, and there’s a dizziness that runs down his lethargic body that makes him frown with discomfort. He had been unsure if his legs could support him when he stood, but he realizes he probably should have been more worried about himself as a whole. He’s got a headache that’s starting to set in from what he knows is hunger and dehydration. He’s standing now, which is a good first step, but his door feels like it’s a million miles away, and the effort he knows it’ll take to lift his hand to twist the doorknob and push seems like a feat too daunting to tackle. It’d be so much easier to just fall back into bed, sleep even though he’s no longer tired, and be whisked away into a dreamland he won’t remember. And George wants to take the easy road, wants to let everything go and just sleep through the rest of the night. With it already being around 9:30, his body clock is all out of whack, and he just wants the  _ easiness _ of falling backwards into his bed. If a stream on the Dream SMP happens, and he misses it, it’s whatever. He’s known for it; it’s one of the biggest running jokes. He makes the excuse that he doesn’t like participating in the scripted stuff because he just doesn’t like it, because he’s not able to admit to the public that he’s insecure in his acting ability and his capability to deliver scenes with the emotion they need.

The dull ache in the back of George’s head is rising in intensity, and George knows he needs to move. He debates making his first meal of the day - night? - just two capsules of Advil, but he’s got a photo to send Dream, and he knows two pills won’t even count as a light snack. Sad. He’s got no motivation to walk towards the door, but he’ll slowly tread towards his bedroom door anyway with his phone in hand, just to get things over with. He feels like he’s walking through quicksand, syrup, anything that’d keep his feet glued to the floor, his pace slower than a snail’s. Or like he’s his own Minecraft avatar that had been hit with a slowness potion and weakness potion at the same time. When his left hand closes around his door handle, he sighs as he realizes he’s barely got the energy to push it down. He powers through it, though, like he always does, and steps out into the hallway. It’s dark, thank god, so his eyes don’t have to do much brightness adjustment as his heavy footsteps lead towards the kitchen. There’s art strung up all along the walls, right at George’s eye level, but he can’t seem to raise his gaze from the floor. All the still lives and landscapes so full of vibrancy (that he can’t even see in their full beauty) just aren’t capturing him like they normally do. George chalks the apathy up to just being from hunger, an ailment he can remedy with something tangible and easy to obtain. He’s really not sure as to where the strange feeling came from. He’ll blame it all on hunger, though, because it’s easier to find a scapegoat to lay his problems on.

But hungry as he might be, when he gets into his kitchen, turns the lights on to the dimmest setting they can be, and stares at the granite countertops covered with fruit and clean, sparkling dishes, he finds there’s nothing that catches the attention of his appetite. All of a sudden, things just started to feel so dull, and now George is left wandering listlessly in a desaturated world that’s already not colored in accurately. There’s a loaf of bread on the counter, sitting next to a bowl of red and green apples his relatives love to make him sort over family Zoom call nights. There are only about half the slices in the plastic packaging, from what George can see. With a forceful exhale to hype himself up, he grabs a napkin and the half-loaf of bread, wrestling with the plastic twist tie until he’s got two slices resting on top of the napkin against the counter. He’s got the materials to make a sandwich without the motivation, so he’ll whip his phone out, open Snapchat - which he only really uses to talk with a select few friends - and snap a picture of the carbs with a cheeky caption ‘air sandwich’. Dream would likely have something to say, a witty response of his own to chastise George for not nourishing himself enough, but George…doesn’t care. Quite frankly, quite honestly, George doesn’t give a shit. Dream’s future concern would be appreciated, of course, but it’s not going to change anything, and there’s a part of George that doesn’t want Dream to waste his breath when scolding him.

He sends the image only after tacking on an emoticon smiley face to the end of his message to give the illusion that he’s just as chipper as he was when ending the call. Leaning on the counter with one hand, he uses his other to bring the food up to his lips. There’s pros and cons to eating both quickly and slowly… Eating quickly gets him back to bed faster, but he isn’t sure he’s got the energy to shovel the food down his throat. And eating slowly requires less effort, but it’ll take longer. George is terribly indecisive, even debating googling a coin flip simulator to make the choice for him, but he settles his mind on eating quickly. What he wants more than anything is to return to the comfort of his bedsheets and blankets, and there’s only one way to do so. He’ll swallow down the food with nothing but saliva, and it makes his mouth run dry, but getting water or another drink is both too energy-consuming and time-consuming. Once George is done, he’ll crumble up the napkin with a few breadcrumbs on it and deposit it in the garbage. The task is simple, mindless, even, but he’ll congratulate himself for doing it anyway.

A swift check of Snapchat as George starts walking towards the bathroom tells him that Dream hasn’t yet read his message, and George simply blinks a few times, not knowing what to make of it. Dream is typically active, but it has only been a few minutes. George shakes his head at himself, silently berating himself for even considering overthinking something so minute. George is greeted by his reflection in the mirror as he pushes the bathroom door open, and something ugly flares up in his stomach as he truly takes in the sight of himself. The only light he has comes from his phone flashlight, so it exacerbates the shadows cast over his face, but there’s no denying the stark contrast of dark purple eye bags under his lower lashline against his pale skin. The deep shadows framing his face make his eyes look almost sunken in, and there’s something about his porcelain skin juxtaposed with the black shadows and dark circles that makes him look  _ dead. _ Or at least decaying, deteriorating, if not actually dead. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, so the dark stubble on his chin and above his upper lip adds to the effect of looking generally unkempt. His hair seems to have a semi-permanent dent in it from the clunky headphones he always wears, and it’s sitting messily atop his head, unbrushed for a day or so. There’s a part of him that wants to send a DM to Corpse a selfie that says something like ‘looking corpsey, stole your brand’, or even tweet it out and tag Corpse, but he’s prevented by his own drained battery and his need to keep up his polished online appearance.

He finishes his business up rather fast, and as he’s washing his hands, he looks at his toothbrush and tube of toothpaste with the life squeezed out of it almost wistfully. His hands twitch at his sides, feeling too heavy to acquire the materials and spend two minutes brushing his teeth. There’s some mouthwash on the counter, though, and he can handle swishing that around for a few seconds. He leaves the bathroom with a minty taste in his mouth, and warmth blooms in his chest when he reenters his room. He closes the door behind him, hand shaking around the doorknob. His blinds are open, so he moves to shut them, not wanting to be awoken by the rising sun that’d come in a few hours. Once that task is done, he stares at his mattress with all the love in the world, and smiles for the first time since ending the call with Dream as he steps towards it. A small ‘oof’ is pushed out of his lungs as he collapses on the bed, and it’s followed by a half-hearted giggle. He doesn’t pick his head up from the pillow as he finds a way to worm himself under the covers, pulling them up to his chin and letting them rub against the short hairs he has there. His phone, now resting next to his head on the pillow, doesn’t show any new notifications from anyone, and George’s increasing exhaustion is more powerful than his curiosity to check if Dream had opened the message. He’ll check it in the morning, it’s really not  _ too _ important.

With how tired George is, it’s funny in that not-funny way how he can’t seem to fall asleep right away. Being back in his room transports him back to his most recent conversation with Dream, and now behind his eyelids, he can see visions of the younger man’s tan hands and what he imagines his smirk to look like. Maybe the idea of Dream having sharper than average canines comes from all the fanart George has browsed… No matter its source, though, George is grateful for the idea popping into his tired mind. He shifts under the covers, a small sleepy noise escaping his lips, and sees Dream’s top lip curling up to expose a fang-like canine tooth. A heavier sigh leaves George as he imagines that sharp tooth sinking into his own lower lip. He imagines Dream’s mouth on his own, warm and demanding. He thinks about the points of Dream’s canines pressing down into the soft pinkness of his bottom lip. He ponders if the pressure and the sharpness would draw blood, and he wonders if Dream’s tongue would dart out between his lips and lap away at the drop of blood, cleaning George’s lips for him. Or maybe Dream would be a bit more aggressive, sucking George’s lip into his mouth, biting at it until it bruised reddish-purple, and opening a spot for another pinprick of blood to rise to the surface…

George’s eyes fly open, and he stares up at his ceiling nearly disappointed in himself. He can deal with having a crush on his best friend, sure. It’s not an ideal situation at all, but it’s one that’s manageable for him. He can handle the stress and internalized anguish that comes with being in love with his closest friend. When the fantasies he has about him become more than just imagining what it’d be like to hold his hand, though, is when it becomes too much for George. He tells himself he shouldn’t think of Dream in that way - if Dream were to ever find out (it’s unlikely, but George’s paranoia doesn’t care about that) would he be repulsed? Probably not, but the chance is still there. And George doesn’t want to take that risk. He doesn’t even know what Dream looks like, for Christ’s sake, so besides some photos of those golden hands and some full-body pictures, George is imagining everything to an even higher exponential degree. He can’t decide if that makes the situation better or worse. George doesn’t want to think about Dream and his hands and his body and the way they could smother George entirely, encompassing all his senses until all the brunette can think is Dream, Dream,  _ Dream, _ but it’s difficult not to - especially after their conversation that just won’t leave George’s head. To Dream, it was probably all fun and games. Some playful back-and-forth banter between the two of them that went a little deeper than it ever had before. Sure, Dream was waxing poetic about George, but it wasn’t anything more than friendly admiration. Even when Dream said he’d make George molten in his hands… Totally platonic.

George looks to his ceiling, pitch black from the darkness around him, for guidance. It doesn’t offer him any solace, the damn bastard. George is exhausted. All he wants is to drift off to a dreamless - and Dreamless - sleep. He doesn’t care for how his thoughts of Dream are heating him from the inside out and making him squirm around beneath his comforter. Those intolerable thoughts are a bother all on their own, but the problem worsens in intensity when he’s trying to get to sleep. There’s a new set of thoughts that come to the forefront of his mind, but he’s not entirely grateful for them either. They remind him that he only woke up a few hours ago, and there’s no reason to go back to sleep and screw up his sleep schedule even more. He’s falling out of cycle with Dream, which is irritating, considering how long they spent trying to link up their schedules with the other person living across the Atlantic ocean. And again, his mind goes back to Dream. George groans and flips himself around so he’s lying on his stomach instead of his back, with his head tilted to the side so he doesn’t suffocate - but suffocation could knock him out, so maybe it isn’t too bad… George is joking. Mostly.

The breathing exercises he’s been taught over the course of his life don’t help ease him into sleep, and neither does counting sheep or counting down from one hundred. There’s just too much going on in his head for him to calm down enough for his body to take him away to dreamland. He sighs, huffs, groans, and sighs again as if his exhalations will do him any good. His phone sitting next to his head seems to be calling out for him, whispering sweetly in his ear to pick it up and check any notifications that might be there. He knows it’ll make falling asleep even harder, that’s what the sensible part of his mind tells him, but he can’t be bothered to listen to that sensibility. His hand closes around his phone and his finger presses down over the power button, illuminating his face with the blue light glow. It hurts his eyes - burns his retinas, he’d say, if he wants to be melodramatic - and he squints, grumbling to himself about how he needs to get the motivation to switch his phone to night mode and have his face be washed over by amber tinted light instead of cobalt tinted light.

There’s a message from Tommy, and George is about to be concerned about why the boy is up so late before he remembers it’s only about half past ten, and it’s a normal time for Tommy to be awake. He checks the Discord DM and smiles at it - it’s nothing too serious, just a few stats about a speedrun he did after asking George for advice on how to speedrun. Sure, George just told Tommy everything Dream had taught him, but it was still George himself who provided that information. George’s social battery is at less than zero, but he can’t just leave the kid on read. He’s not as close to the teenager as Wilbur is, but they’re the same in the way that they’re both fond of Tommy, protective of him, and proud of all he’s achieved over the course of his Twitch and YouTube career. He types out a message saying he’s impressed, and that he knew the blonde would be able to complete a solid speedrun (with the advice he gave him, of course). After that, he exits Discord and opens Snapchat to see nothing has changed, the arrow indicating his message has been sent still appearing solid and labelling the snap as unread. It’s whatever. He closes the app down and stares at his home screen and the few games he’s got on it, one including one about un-scrambling different color gradients he has no clue why he installed.

It’s an almost subconscious habit for his fingers to tap on the glass screen until he’s got Twitter open, and the lights out setting he has is a lot easier on his eyes than the white background of the Snapchat message screen. There’s nothing he really needs to tweet out, it’s just habitual for him to scroll on the app mindlessly right before going to bed. He types out ‘#georgenotfoundfanart’ into the search bar and clicks the ‘Latest’ tab to see some of the most recent art that’s been drawn of him. He still can’t fathom that people are really interested in drawing him. Of their own want, their own volition, they’re using him as creative inspiration. He’s beyond grateful for both the art itself and the thought that he’s enough of an inspiration to be the muse for art. There are some drawings of him in cute anime-type styles that he’s heard Sapnap, who’s got much more knowledge about anime than him, call ‘chibi’. He thinks they’re absolutely adorable from the way they draw his hair all fluffy to the way the white shine in his dark eyes pulls his focus so intently. He likes some of those drawings, and everything is great until he scrolls a little farther to find a drawing of him and Dream that’s a little bit suggestive.

Nothing too explicit, or else it likely wouldn’t have been tagged with anything other than the ‘#dreamnotfoundfanart’ he sees next to the fanart tag for just him. The focus is mostly on George himself, maybe that’s why he got the personal hashtag? He clicks on the photo to see if there was anything the cropping obscured, and finds that there’s more than what he saw originally. The bottom of the drawing ends right where George’s waist is, where he can see just about an inch of the waistband of a pair of light blue denim jeans. He’s also dressed in the shirt his Minecraft skin wears with a pair of clout goggles on his head. His head is tilted back and to the right, baring his throat - which appears to be littered with hickeys - to the viewer. His lips look a little discolored than what George knows his own mouth to be, and he can assume the artist has just made them redder than they normally are, presumably kiss-bitten. His lips are parted, too, and there’s a flush spread across his face. His dark hair is messy, falling a bit in his face, and George can safely say he looks debauched. He’s the focus of the art, the supernova that’s bright and demanding of attention, but if he’s the exploding star then Dream is the black hole, imposing with an inescapable gravitational pull. He’s behind George, bent down to compensate for the height disparity, with his mouth attached to the junction of George’s neck and left shoulder. Not much of his face is visible from the angle that Dream is facing; George can really only see bits of his forehead that the dirty blonde hair doesn’t cover. George notes that the iconic mask Dream wears is pushed off from his face and onto the left side of his head. His arms, bare and golden and freckled, are wrapped around George. Dream’s right arm comes up over George’s right shoulder and his large hand rests on George’s sternum, fingers pressing into his clothed flesh and wrinkling the fabric underneath it. Dream’s left arm is lower, and it’s really only his forearm that’s visible in the frame, towards the bottom. It snakes across George’s body a few inches above his waist, and it’s angled downwards. Dream’s thumb, index, middle, and ring fingers are visible, laying right on top of where the button to George’s jeans would be, and it doesn’t take much thinking to comprehend what the artist had in mind.

It’s a beautiful drawing from a technical standpoint. The anatomy is great, the semi-realistic art style is enrapturing, and the lighting is enchanting. It’s also beautiful to George from a personal perspective, and it’s the reason he once again starts to imagine Dream’s mouth on him, this time on his neck instead of his lips. Those sharp teeth he imagined before, how would they feel against the sensitive skin of his throat? George shivers, aware that he’s completely and utterly fucked. He should interact with the tweet, considering he’s spent a good few minutes ogling it and then fantasizing about it, so he gives the tweet a like. And he doesn’t stop there, though maybe he should. Only maybe, though. There really isn’t an issue with him commenting on fanart. He’s done it before, this just happens to be ship art with a PG-13 rating. It’s fine. He taps the button to type out a reply, and sends a comment of ‘i like the lineart :]’. He’s instantly flooded with likes and retweets and replies from people who have his tweet notifications on, but he exits the app and shuts off his phone before it gets too overwhelming. He places the phone under his pillow so he’d be less likely to take it again, and he shuts his eyes. Maybe he’s pavloved himself into associating scrolling through Twitter in the dark with going to sleep, because he can already feel himself drifting off. His sheets, his pillow, his blankets. They’re warm and comforting, providing him with an embrace he craves from a living, breathing person. There’s a heaviness in his chest that regains most of his mind’s occupancy now that he isn’t distracting himself with social media, and it causes the neutral expression on his face to shift into a frown. The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is sighing, exasperated.

It takes a little over two full days for George to rejoin the waking world. He only realizes that after his desire to do more than lay in bed with the lights off - with the occasional bathroom or food break he only takes when they become absolutely necessary - wears out and he feels like he can actually function as a person again. His phone has blown up with notifications on Discord and Twitter, he’s received a few Snapchat notifications, and even some regular text messages and a missed call from Dream. It was from sometime yesterday, George had remembered; he’d heard the call from where the ringtone sounded out, the sound muffled beneath his pillow. But without the energy to answer, he let the phone ring until the sound stopped. If he’d gotten any other calls than just that one, he’d have answered it even with his social burnout overpowering him - more than one call meant something serious was up, and that took precedence over George’s distaste for interaction. But there was no second call, not even a voicemail, so George resigned to asking Dream about it when he’d come back to reality, which was now.

There’s nothing too pressing on Discord, just some friends asking if he’s alright. He sends back the same message to all of them -  _ yeah, just been tired. back now :] _ \- and grins at himself for already having the message pre-typed in his notes app. Snapchat is next, and the only message he really cares about is a snap from Dream that, after checking the timestamp, George sees is from about two hours after he sent his own message. He opens it and a photo of Patches enters his field of vision, captioned with ‘you should eat more’ and an accompanying frowny face emoticon. The conversation is already days old, so he leaves Dream on read, and heads to Twitter.

Right. Where he commented on the fanart and promptly passed out. The artist replied to him at least six times - xey had been freaking out, thanking him profusely, and apologizing he ‘had to see it’. He likes the responses and then sees what a few of his friends had to say. Karl, bless him, replied to him saying ‘it’s awesome! and the shading is great too’. Sapnap had quite the classy ‘what the hell’, which makes George let out a low chuckle. He likes both of their tweets, feeling pretty content, and then he sees Dream’s response to him. It’s cheeky, and George can almost hear the smirk through the pixels on his phone as his eyes trace over the words:  _ is that all you like? _ George purses his lips. He could ignore it, he could like it, he could reply. By looking at the comments in response to Dream’s post that are already there, George can see that their fans have gone absolutely wild, their tweets mainly consisting of keyboard smashes and being shocked that they were “flirting on main” - it occurs to him then that he had been using his main account and Dream had replied with his own. George figures that replying to Dream would be something harmless, especially if he does it in a way that borders on cryptic, protects his true feelings, and stays honest. He answers Dream publicly with a simple ‘nope’ - funny, since the simplicity of the message is a complete contrast to his thoughts on what exactly to say. He debated between almost every form of the word no, he weighed the pros and cons of adding an emoji or emoticon, and then how each kind of the addition could subtly change the meaning of his message. The ‘nope’ was short, sweet, simple, and honest. Again, the notifications start rolling in at a high rate, and George clicks off Twitter. It’s midnight right now, and George isn’t tired. He’s not  _ fully _ recharged socially, so he doesn’t think he’ll stream or join the stream of anyone else who may be live. He checks Twitch to see it’s just Ant and Bad on the SMP, most likely doing a lore stream about the egg. George knows next to nothing about the egg, aside from the fact that it’s red and called the egg. He…should probably do a better job of at least staying updated on the lore if he wasn’t going to actively participate.

He doesn’t sleep at all, and spends the eight hours scrolling through his TikTok for you page, playing around a bit on a survival world trying to learn some good tricks to use in a manhunt video, and editing a video he knows he’s gotta post sometime soon. The chilly England sunrise shedding a bit of light through his blinds is what alerts him of the fact that eight hours have passed. His stomach growls at him, and for the first time in days, he’s got motivation to feed himself. He walks out to the kitchen, with almost enough energy to say he’s got some pep in his step, and grabs an apple off the counter. When he lifts his hand to his mouth to bite down on the fruit, his skin gets gently scratched by the stubble on his chin that’s grown out a bit more. George doesn’t have an affinity for too much facial hair on himself, preferring just barely more than a five o’clock shadow to be the maximum length of hair, and resolves to himself that he’ll shave sometime today. The apple is delicious, and although he can’t see the color in its full glory, the tart taste of it is enough to convince George it’s a granny smith - green. His eyes close as he savors the taste of the fruit and how it floods his mouth. The juice washes over his taste buds, some of it even spilling out past the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin. He rubs it away with his hand, and the feeling of sticky fruit juice coating the short hairs on his chin is even more of an incentive to shave the hair off.

He moves to deposit the apple core in the trash, and peers out the window to see the sun has disappeared behind dark grey clouds; it’s raining. Warmth blooms in George’s chest, starting in his heart and spreading outwards until his entire body feels a little warmer from his head to his feet. He’s loved the rain since he was little, loved it along with his love for water. Rain, snow, even sleet that his parents had to pull him inside and away from, he adored it all. George catches himself smiling, a real smile, a wide and toothy grin that’s genuine instead of a half-hearted cocky smirk, and he feels a pull on his heartstrings that tugs him towards his front door. What he’s changed into over the past few days, a hoodie and sweatpants, is probably enough to deal with the wet chill, so he slips on a pair of old sneakers he no longer cares about and steps out into the outside world. The rain is cold and makes George shiver as it starts to tickle his skin. Nature’s organic shower is gentle against his flesh even with the chill it carries, and George can’t help but bark out a laugh as it washes over him. His sweatshirt is light grey and it starts to darken the color of the clouds in the splotches where raindrops collide with the fabric. George feels as if the rain is cleansing him, washing away the grime and the exhaustion and the lack of motivation of the past few days, and words can’t describe how grateful he is for it. He’s feeling a little bit like himself again, espresso eyes glancing up at the droplets falling around him. His phone is protected from the precipitation in his pocket, but he’s sure that pulling it out for a minute or so won’t cause any lasting water damage. He doesn’t know where exactly he gets the idea from, but before George can stop himself, he’s laying down on his back on a patch of sodden grass. He instantly gasps from the damp chill that soaks through his sweatshirt and now presses against his back, leaching his body heat out through each vertebrae. He closes his eyes and grins as the raindrops splash on his face, hitting his barely visible freckles and running down his cheeks like tear tracks.

His phone is out of his pocket a few seconds after, and he opens his eyes for a bit to open up TikTok and get to the filming screen. He selects a song he deems perfect for the rainy occasion, and holds the phone with both hands above his face so that his head to the middle of his chest is in view of the camera. The start of the song section begins to ring out through his phone speaker, words a friend has written that George has already privately given his praise to:  _ Got a lot of bad shit that I’m takin’ to my grave. _ After the fifteen seconds are finished, George captions the video and adds a few hashtags before posting it. He likes the video himself, because he knows he’s got his own back if nobody else does, and he puts his phone back away inside the safety of his pocket, wet case and all. George stays outside with his eyes closed laying on the ground until his body is as waterlogged as the grass underneath him. Not wanting to catch a cold, George knows he needs to head inside. He’ll have to wait until the summer months to stay out for hours in warm rain where the risk of getting sick won’t loom over him like a dark cumulonimbus cloud. He takes his shoes off on his front porch, not wanting to bring the sopping sneakers back inside, and steps quietly through the doorway. He shivers upon reentry from the temperature change even though it’s warmer inside his house than it is outside. He’s gotta shower - he hasn’t done it in a couple days and he’s desperate to warm up.

George heads over to the dryer in the closet his family stores the laundry appliances in, and strips down to just his boxers and socks, throwing his soaking clothes into the machine and starting a quick cycle. He knows his parents are asleep and won’t be waking up anytime soon, so he’s fine with walking around mostly exposed. His boxers and socks rest on the floor once he’s in the bathroom and stepping inside the shower, skin immediately warming and muscles instantly relaxing under the steady spray of hot water. His shower is nice, though quick, cleaning him both physically and spiritually. With a towel wrapped around his waist, George tends to shaving his face in the mirror, only nicking himself on the jawline once, and he feels happier when he looks at himself in the mirror than he did days ago. He feels more like himself. His eye bags are nearly gone, he’s back to a smooth face, and his dark eyes seem to catch the light a bit better. They’re glinting obsidian instead of dull blocks of coal.

Today… It’ll be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yayyyy new chapter pog !!!!!! i hope y'all liked it! as always, feedback is very very very much appreciated~~ heheh,,
> 
> stay hydrated, y'all! and have a great night!  
> xoxo, ulysses


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